


Technically, he is a fucking shapeshifter

by pintpotjudas



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Humour, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 12:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pintpotjudas/pseuds/pintpotjudas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm's a vampire. Jamie's not. No one is sparkly. Everyone is swear-y.</p>
<p>This first appeared on tumblr, where my username is the same. You may have already read this. And in my defence, the file name for this is 'This is ridiculous'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technically, he is a fucking shapeshifter

Thing is, he knows he’s a walking fucking cliché. 

He’s slim and well dressed, with his colourless skin and gaunt face giving him that air of being not quite on the right side of grave. Yet he’s still attractive enough, even after all these many, many years, that Nicola Murray occasionally gets that speculative, slightly scared, partially hopeful look in her eye. Not to mention Julius fucking Nicholson’s less than subtle reactions to him. 

Then there’s the thing, which stops people (most people, nearly all people, apart from one bloody person) from getting too close. The threat that has nothing to do (well, mostly) with the words he chooses or the volume at which he barks them or the glare he gives them whilst doing it. 

It’s the basic, primal instinct that even these lardy, thick headed portions of flesh that pass for humans these days still have, deeply ingrained and wired into their hard drives, a relic from the days when life was something to be fought for, protected. It’s the fear of an actual predator. The natural wariness of a creature which could flay them alive, if the fancy struck it to do so. 

Oh, Malcolm’s not actually fed in centuries. He’s not particularly bothered; he was never one to be particularly enthralled with his own bloodlust. And if he wants the thrill of terrifying someone half to death he merely needs to hint at who might be given the elbow in the next cabinet reshuffle. Besides, he’s grown rather fond of whiskey and biting into a segment of a halfway decent tangerine rather emulates the exquisite give of virgin skin. If you shut your eyes and use your imagination a bit.

So it never comes as a surprise that complete cretins intermittently whisper the V word when describing him, amidst slightly less florid and rather more four lettered accounts. He looks the part, he plays the part. He is the twatting part. Except of course, humans have fictionalised vampires to the point of making them bloody glittery, so there’s no way he can possibly be one.

Except of course he is.

Which should make his life difficult, but doesn’t. He’s ‘vegetarian’ and has a job which distracts him and fulfils his need to dominate without actually ripping heads off to prove a point (but he could). As for slayers, well, no one has heard a peep from them in decades. Rumour has it the bloodline has dried out.  
So everything is fine as long as his vampiric ‘charms’ keep repelling Julius from acting on any of his baser feelings and politicians continue to be clusterfucks (which Malcolm suspects will soon be added to the short list of ‘guarantees in life’, right up there with death and taxes).

Then Jamie strolls into his office without so much as a passing thought of knocking and Malcolm has to maintain a special effort to keep from baring his teeth.

Jamie is something of a mystery to Malcolm. Not the actual man himself: he knows him as abrasive and half mental, raised on a mixture of fire and brimstone fundamentalist Catholicism and football hooliganism. A true son of Motherwell who is loyal almost to a fault, crude and occasionally utterly hilarious. He’s also a compact little fucker, with a ridiculously strong grip and eyes that make him look innocent for that half second before he opens his mouth.

“Morning.” Jamie is practically whistling.

“Morning.”

“ Fuck’s up with you?” he immediately asks, as if he can gauge Malcolm’s entire mood from one word. Which he can.

“Nothing.” 

“Oh. Aye.”

See, here’s the thing, the big mystery. Jamie should be cowering in a corner, as Malcolm is using pretty much all his energy focussing ‘Go. Away.Now.’ signals at the little shit. Instead, Jamie’s just looking vaguely bemused. It’s... frustrating to say the least.

“Did you want something or are you just going to stand there like the world’s most fucking stupid looking hat stand. You know, in that only one hat would fit and you look fucking stupid.”  
It’s not his best insult and it just seems to amuse Jamie more, a wry twist coming to his lips.

“Long night, Malc?”

“Ah, fuck off.”

Jamie, of course, does not fuck off as instructed. He’s shrugs off his coat, the one which makes him look like he should be stood on the sidelines at a football match, shouting at his players until he turns purple or has an aneurysm. Jamie has always been somewhat impervious to fashion.

“So, what’s on the agenda for the day? Whose face am I to be smashing against a wall?” he asks. 

Thing is, it’s nice to know Jamie’s got his back. He’d rather have the unpredictable mass of irate Scotsman on his side rather than working against him and Malcolm knows that, almost instinctively. Jamie looks keen to get down to business, if the cracking of knuckles and terrifying gleam in his eye have anything to do with it.

The rest of the day goes as smoothly as it ever does. A typical DoSAC fuck up (Malcolm barely pays the actual details any attention anymore he just works out a way of dealing with it and therapeutically screeches at as many people as possible). At one point, Jamie has Ollie Reeder backed against a glass wall. He’s threatening to ‘make him sick into his own lungs’ if he doesn’t ring Angela ‘could be your fucking sister, you’ve got the same dead eyed look and pube like hair’ Heaney at the Mail to start a counter leak.

Ollie practically leaves a sweaty tide mark on the wall from when he’d started perspiring profusely (basically the second Jamie had walked into the room with his ‘I’m going to make you eat some major shit’ face on). Malcolm wonders how he ever managed to persuade any woman to ever sleep with him, as he scuttles passed, clutching at his phone. He comes to the conclusion that Ollie Reeder is the master of sympathy shags.

Which, sadly, means that Ollie would get a shag at least once a century. Which a) is not something Malcolm wants to think about, ever, and is making him a bit sick into his own lungs and b) means Ollie ‘still probably wishes he could breast feed’ Reeder is getting laid more than him.

It really doesn’t help when Jamie turns around and fucking grins at Malcolm, all gleeful and up for the fight. Malcolm’s knees actually go a bit weak, but he manages to cover it up by yelling at Glenn. Glenn probably doesn’t deserve it, but he is sitting in close enough range to be in Malcolm’s trajectory of sexual frustration uh, rage.

Malcolm storms out to lunch at about three, thereby avoiding Nicholson and his sandwich prodding ways. He buys a fuckload of fruit and some energy drink. He’s doing fine, having downed a pint of microwaved pig’s blood that morning, and it’s not as if any of the people in Pret a Manger are remotely appealing. They smell of disappointment, sweat, cigarettes, ennui, cloying perfume. Due to his heightened sense of smell some everyday experiences can be extremely unpleasant. The Tube is like hell on earth. 

Still he’s back out on the street within minutes, eating a banana and enjoying the slight blustery breeze of an autumn’s day.

Jamie is back in the press office, gesticulating so wildly whilst on the phone that he nearly knocks the wee pastoral painting of the horse that hangs behind his desk off the wall. He gives Malcolm a quick thumbs up and proceeds to call the person on the other end of the phone a cunt. Malcolm assumes they must be a Murdoch hack and that Jamie has it all in hand given the liberal interspersal of four letter words on his end of the conversation. He heads back to his office to eat an apple.

He’s just getting around to some actual, honest to God paperwork at around four, when Julius Nicholson himself wanders in, the glow of low energy bulbs glinting off of his bobbing head making him look like some sort of eminently twattish lighthouse. 

“Malcolm, just wondering if I could have a little chat with you about the new-” Julius begins. Malcolm allows himself to drift off a bit. Julius will twitter and hand gesture and air quote at him for a few minutes and at the end of it all Malcolm will just say “No, fuck off.” and that’ll be that. It’s actually rather restful, having a routine. Also the way Julius’s head gleams is actually rather mesmerising, a bit like a lava lamp.

After a moment or two Malcolm becomes aware of the fact that Julius has finally stopped talking and is looking at Malcolm expectantly. God, what had he suggested again? Art classes for the homeless? A charity run in aid of urban foxes? The entire Cabinet wearing green for a day ‘because of the environment’?  
That’s when Jamie wanders in, actually knocking this time, but seeing as he doesn’t stop, just glances his fist against the wood of the door, it’s a rather empty gesture.

Watching Jamie and Julius together is always amusing. The fact that Julius insists on calling Jamie ‘James’ (the last time anyone called Jamie ‘James’ was probably the priest at his fucking christening) is hilarious in itself, but seeing Jamie, who was raised on pub fights, cheap cigarettes, tatties and neeps deal with Julius, who was raised on cream teas by a woman he still calls Nanny is the kind of entertainment money can’t buy.

“Afternoon Julius, delivering the daily twat report, are you?” is Jamie’s opening gambit.

Julius splutters a bit, floored anew by Jamie’s complete lack of manners towards him. 

“James, this is actually a private meeting between Malcolm and myself so if you would kindly-”

“Pop down to Boots and buy you both some johnnies? Get tae fuck, Julius, this isn’t a private meeting, it’s you lulling Malc into a catatonic fucking state with your verbal bollocks and baldy arm waving.” 

Jamie’s tone is dismissive but there’s something about the way he’s glancing between Malcolm and Julius that seems ...off. Malcolm decides to prod it a bit, going on a bit of a hunch.

“Actually, Jamie, this is rather an important discussion, so if you wouldn’t mind fucking off for a bit...”

Malcolm watches, satisfaction curling in his gut as Jamie’s eyes narrow. Jamie can be rather easy to read, wearing his emotions on his sleeve as he does. He suspects there’s something going between Malcolm and Julius. It’s laughable, in the extreme, from Malcolm’s end. But he and Julius do work rather closely together, often times late into the night. Julius is obviously attracted to Malcolm, and it really wouldn’t take much effort on Malcolm’s part to get him under his thrall.

But Julius is about as appealing as a service station ham sandwich. And Malcolm is probably more likely to have sex with the service station ham sandwich. But the knowledge that Jamie is apparently jealous is rather... interesting.

Jamie drops his eyes and sets his jaw.

“Right, enjoy your unsatisfying mutual wank. I’d stay and watch but, you know, I’m not into grey, middle aged ,depressed, fetish porn, thanks.” He strolls out of the door and closes, just a hair too forcefully to be convincing.

Malcolm grins to himself until he realises that he’s essentially sentenced himself to another hour of Nicholson’s mental proposals.

***  
For once, Malcolm got away from the office at a reasonable hour. He’s just about to ‘relax’ with the Channel Four news when there’s a forceful series of knocks on the door.

He has a doorbell. But of course, Jamie will always ignore a convenient button in favour of simulated punching.

Malcolm can’t deny the frisson of excitement he feels as he walks towards the door, the anticipation of a coming fight. 

Jamie’s through the door the instant Malcolm opens it, slamming it shut behind him. What Malcolm isn’t quite expecting (although maybe he was, a tiny bit) is for Jamie to grab him and throw him against it. Malcolm finds himself pinned there, because Jamie may be diminutive but he’s fucking strong. There’s an arm across his breast bone and Jamie appears to be leaning his full weight on it. 

He has his other hand free, apparently for pointing, as Jamie thrusts a finger practically into Malcolm’s eye.

“We need to have words.”

They never normally get this close, as Malcolm usually makes a concentrated effort to keep his distance from Jamie. Jamie’s scent is to Malcolm what Greggs is to fat Northerners. Not that Jamie smells anything like sausage rolls or pastries; he evokes expensive whisky, fresh rain, fucking wood smoke. Jamie up close makes Malcolm poetic and he makes him want.

“This how you normally initiate a chat, is it?”

Jamie smirks. “Aye, I would have brought round a box of chocolates and weepy film so we could sit round and talk about our feelings, but the idea didn’t have much appeal.”

Malcolm could, with minimal effort, chuck Jamie down the hall if he wanted. He glares down at him.

“So , what do you want?”

Jamie’s eyes scan his face, darting here and there, making him look even more mental than usual.

“We need to set some ground rules, you and I.”

This isn’t what Malcolm’s expecting. He’d been expecting either a kick to the groin or a violent snog or both.

“Well, we actually needed to set some ground rules for fucking years but there didn’t seem much point, as it was pretty obvious you weren’t feeding then.”

Something short circuits in Malcolm’s brain. Jamie carries on, oblivious.

“And I assumed you weren’t going to start again. But, I’m not going to let you kill someone, not on my watch.”

Malcolm just stares at Jamie. 

“What?” Jamie asks.

“You fucking knew?” Malcolm explodes.

Jamie steps back, not through fear, but because he’s just taken an unpleasant gobbet of spittle to the eye.

“Christ Malc, I had a shower this morning. And yeah, course.” Jamie is looking at Malcolm like he’s a bit simple. Malcolm doesn’t appreciate it; he’s the one who’s meant to give that look.

“This whole- you’ve known- fucking years!-” Sentence fragments seem to be all Malcolm is capable of.

“Well, yeah.” Finally Jamie is looking less sure of himself. “I thought that you knew that I knew. Because of what I am, surely you know that.”

“What are you? Apart from piss annoying?”

“A slayer.”

A bolt of cold horror strikes Malcolm’s chest. It must register on his face as Jamie starts gabbling at him.

“Christ, I thought- do you not remember when we met? And you offered me that job and said ‘I’d rather have you on my side than against me’?” Jamie has big eyes at the best of times but right now he looks like a bush baby with hyperthyroid.

Malcolm shakes his head, trying to get it out of the looping scenario of Jamie pulling a knife from his coat and chopping his head off (the stake thing is utter bollocks, nothing short of slicing a vampire’s block off will stop them.)

“I meant in a professional sense.” he replies.

Shit. Shit, he thinks. Because what if all Jamie’s faithful loyalty, the way his gaze would rest just a little longer on Malcolm, the fact he’s stuck around for so long are simply him doing his job? Keeping an eye on a potentially dangerous vampire and nothing more than that. Fuck, fuck, and shit.

Firmly telling himself he’s not disappointed at all, what’s he going to do with an insane, diminutive Glaswegian anyway, he goes over what Jamie’s actually said.

“I’m not planning on feeding anytime soon, either. We’re not all violent psychopaths, unlike some.” he says, pointedly.

“What was all that with Nicholson, then?” Jamie has folded his arms now, looking a bit put out, but not even commenting on the psychopath dig. “You actually fancy him?”

“No, I don’t fucking fancy him!” Malcolm shouts, because this evening has taken enough of a turn into the ridiculous without Jamie thinking that.

He needs a drink, so he turns on his heel and heads for the kitchen, leaving Jamie in the hall, apparently still putting two and two together.

He’s finished pouring a measure, neat with no ice when Jamie appears. Malcolm gives him a look, a look that clearly states ‘Get the fuck out of my kitchen’.

“So... you didn’t know I was ... what I am, and you weren’t aware that I knew that you’re... you know, one of them.” Jamie states, like a policeman in some shite cop drama.

“’One of them’? Christ Jamie, have you been modelling yourself on Enoch twatting Powell?”

“No, I just don’t like thinking of you as something I’ve been trained to kill since I learnt how to walk, alright!” Jamie shouting is a lot more comforting than the quiet analytical tone he was using a moment ago.

“Why?” He takes an imperious sip of hid drink and prides himself on not wincing.

Jamie practically leaps onto the kitchen counter, that question seems to irritate him that much.

“Why? Fucking, why? Jesus shitting Christ, Malc, d’you think I stay because I like your fucking company? D’you think I haven’t had other job offers? Do you think I haven’t had other offers full stop?” 

Later Malcolm would lie and say that he simply wanted to shut Jamie up because he was spouting bollocks that wouldn’t be out of place in a Hollyoaks script. Or that something in him just snapped. He would never actually admit that it was the thought of Jamie with someone else (anyone else) which finally propels him into dumping his glass and grabbing the back of Jamie’s neck.

If Jamie’s surprised he doesn’t let on, allows himself to be dragged into a kiss which has been years in the making and yeah, this is ridiculous. Because Jamie is about as stable an octopus riding a penny farthing and apparently knows how to kill Malcolm. Yet Malcolm barely touched the whiskey and he feels drunk, his free hand clutching at Jamie’s lower back, anchoring him.

It doesn’t feel like a first kiss, because first kisses are always awkward, unpractised. Jamie’s arms wrap around Malcolm’s waist with a familiar ease, his head tilted to the perfect angle as their lips meet. Malcolm pushes, pressing Jamie against the edge of the counter, threading his fingers into Jamie’s hair.

Fuck it, Jamie’s his, finally. He has no idea how long he’s sustained himself on a diet of frustration and want but it feels like a fucking century. A particularly boring one at that. He kisses harder and Jamie meets him, strength for strength, like he always does.

Eventually they have to part as Jamie has to breathe. Malcolm doesn’t, technically, but it can be refreshing. Jamie’s flushed, like he’s been shouting for an hour without a break and Christ, Malcolm’s not going to able to look at Jamie yelling at anyone now without getting turned on. Or more turned on than he used to get, at least.

Jamie grins at him, looking feral in the kitchen lights. He reaches a hand up to cup Malcolm’s chin and strokes a thumb, tenderly, yet almost hard enough to leave a bruise, along his jaw.

“Right then.” Is all he says, but Malcolm practically hear a gauntlet being thrown down. Malcolm’s pulled into a kiss which feels about as safe as drinking meths. It causes a similar burning sensation in the pit of Malcolm’s stomach. He suspects it might cause the same kind of permanent damage.

Jamie has somehow managed to take control of the situation and spun them round, now Malcolm’s the one with a granite countertop digging into his spine. He makes a little noise of discomfort but then Jamie’s hand is right there, creating a comforting barrier between Malcolm’s back and the unforgiving polished stone. Jamie’s teeth nip at Malcolm’s bottom lip in a manner that would draw blood, if he didn’t temper the scrape of teeth at the last moment. Yet another embarrassing noise escapes Malcolm when Jamie pulls away. 

“I’m not doing this here.” Jamie states, with a decided finality. His mouth is flushed red, and Malcolm can barely tear his eyes away.

“What?”

“I’m not shagging you in this fucking operating theatre you call a kitchen. Come on.”

That’s how Malcolm finds himself being dragged through his own house. Occasionally they take a break from the arduous task of walking to throw each other against the wall, half passionately embracing and half wrestling for dominance. A table lamp crashes to the floor and they freeze, look at the shattered remains thoughtfully for a moment, before reaching for each other again.

They reach the bedroom, Jamie’s kisses become more frantic and Malcolm’s in distinct danger of having to sacrifice an expensive shirt to Jamie’s shaking yet determined fingers. They fall on the bed, still mostly dressed. The only light in the room is that from the landing, spilling in through the door. It adds a vaguely disquieting edge of unreality to the whole thing. Of course, Malcolm can see clearly in the semi darkness, and he can see that Jamie’s eyes are screwed shut and there’s something not right here.

Malcolm pushes himself up, leans over and flicks on his bedside lamp. Jamie also sits up, and runs a hand over his face. It suddenly feels like there are miles between them, not just a couple of feet and Malcolm’s not quite sure how to bridge the gap.

He wants to ask if Jamie’s alright, but isn’t quite sure how to do that without making Jamie feel like a virgin on her wedding night. Because Jamie had seemed all for this earlier, not even the desecration of a very expensive lamp had stopped him and Malcolm doesn’t want to be crude but his ‘interest’ was pretty fucking obvious.

But now there’s this awkward tension in the air, their earlier momentum and excitement has faded. The mood in the room seems to be ‘tread lightly’ and Malcolm’s never had to tread lightly with Jamie, didn’t expect to have to here, considering how easy it had all seemed earlier.

He’s just about to ask what the fuck is up with Jamie when the man himself speaks.

“This isn’t- you aren’t-” he breaks off, clearly frustrated. He looks at Malcolm with an almost sad expression in his eyes, and Malcolm doesn’t know what the hell that means, but then Jamie mumbles something which sounds like ‘Ah, fuck it.’ and launches himself at Malcolm again.

The heat is back instantly, Jamie straddling Malcolm, pushing their groins together, making Jamie gasp hotly against Malcolm’s throat. Malcolm kisses Jamie’s open mouth, slides a hand down Jamie’s spine and pulls his shirt out of his trousers. 

Jamie pulls back, and for a second Malcolm thinks he’s going to distance himself again, but instead he just yanks his tie off and starts undoing the buttons of his shirt. It gets chucked unceremoniously across the room and Malcolm has a few seconds to register Jamie’s pale, pale skin, the hair on his chest and the trail which leads down from his navel before he’s being kissed soundly again. 

Clothing is shed fairly quickly after that, the earlier strangeness forgotten. They lie down together, Malcolm pulling Jamie on top of him, like the world’s angriest blanket, not that Jamie seems angry right now. Malcolm licks the tendons of Jamie’s neck, and Jamie gasps out a breathy ‘Fuck.’ which fills Malcolm with a bizarre mixture of protectiveness coupled with the need to fuck Jamie into the mattress, right now. 

This isn’t going to last long, it’s clearly been a while for both of them and Malcolm can’t recall ever wanting someone this intensely. He’s not about to admit it to the man wriggling in his arms though. Jamie works a hand between them, grasping their erections, holding them together in a shockingly intimate manner. Jamie kisses Malcolm’s collar bone, his eyes shaded by long lashes and Malcolm finds himself reaching out and stroking Jamie’s cheek. Jamie looks up.

This is dangerous ground now, because it’s not just fucking. If it were just fucking, they’d currently be fucking, not staring into each other’s eyes like Disney characters. Malcolm suddenly understands the brief oddness earlier, because for Jamie this wasn’t just fucking, and clearly it wasn’t just fucking for Malcolm, but Jamie didn’t know and Malcolm assumed he did. Malcolm attempts a reassuring smile.

“Jesus fucking wept, never do that again, you look like someone who lures people into vans.” Jamie says, but he can’t hide the slightly demented joy in his tone.

“Fuck off.” Malcolm says, as he drags Jamie in, kissing his laughing mouth. Jamie’s loose grip on their erections tightens, as he begins a familiar stroking rhythm. It’s such a simple touch, and this is going to be rather finesse-less sex, but it doesn’t matter because it’s them and it’s finally happening, despite everything. Malcolm wraps his hand around Jamie’s encouraging him to increase their pace. 

Jamie is uttering a litany of filth against Malcolm’s lips, his voice becoming hoarser as their hands move faster. Jamie presses even closer, and Malcolm shifts slightly, kissing his cheek, his jaw, before giving in to temptation by gently biting at Jamie’s neck. He worries, for about half a second, that he may have gone too far, when the stuttering movements of Jamie’s hips stop. But Jamie is angling himself so Malcolm has better access to the soft skin of his throat, and Malcolm takes full advantage of the permission he’s been granted.

His teeth glance against Jamie’s clammy skin, carefully skimming the surface, decidedly not breaking through his flesh. Because yeah, it’d be easy, but Jamie knows that. Jamie knows how strong Malcolm is and he’s never been afraid of him, he’s fucking loyal and trusting and Malcolm will never admit it but there’s something curling in his chest which feels like a warm kitten, and he’s not going to dwell on it.  
Instead he kisses his way back up to Jamie’s mouth as Jamie flicks his thumb across the head of Malcolm’s cock in a rather delightful manner, and Malcolm decides to repay the favour. Jamie was closer than Malcolm had imagined as lets out a soft keening noise, coming all over their joined hands and Malcolm’s stomach. That tips Malcolm over the edge and he joins him a scant ten seconds later, his faced pressed against the point where Jamie’s neck meets his collarbone, where his scent is strongest.

Malcolm doses for a bit, only coming round when he feels Jamie cleaning him up. He must’ve been out of it, he didn’t feel Jamie get up.

“Christ, is that my fucking face flannel? I don’t want your spunk all over it.” he grumbles.

“Calm down, you great Jessie.” Jamie says, dumping the flannel and pulling the blankets over them both. He does something which absolute morons with a death wish might describe as ‘snuggling down’ next to Malcolm. 

“Your hair looks mental.” Jamie declares, then runs a hand through it, mussing what Malcolm expect is a riot of rather embarrassing curls further.

Malcolm bats his hand away. “You’re not going to let me sleep, are you?”

“You don’t need to sleep.” Jamie points out.

“Just because I don’t need to doesn’t mean I don’t want to, every now and again.” He curls an arm around Jamie’s perpetually wriggling form, in an effort to get him to sit fucking still. Jamie settles, his head on Malcolm’s shoulder.

If they’re going to do pillow talk, Malcolm decides, they are not going to talk about their fucking feelings.

“So... have you killed any vampires?” Malcolm asks, and Jamie goes stiff in a very not good way.

“Fucking hell, Malc!” Jamie says, sitting up, as scandalised as a Mother Superior coming across an orgy.

“What?”

“Just- fucking kill a mood, would you?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, it was just a question.”Malcolm’s annoyed at himself for bringing the tension back, but if there were a way to shove cats back in bags he’d have discovered it years ago. Jamie glares at him.

“Right, yeah, you’re not going to like the answer though, are you?”

Jamie looks about one ill thought out response from putting his clothes on and leaving. 

“No- I don’t care, alright?”

“You don’t care.” Jamie repeats, and it’s not a question, it’s a disbelieving statement. Malcolm wonders how he’s managed to fuck this up so quickly. Jamie’s actually getting out of bed now.

“Yeah, I don’t care, stop being a precious little tart and come back here.” Jamie’s not even looking at him, not even swearing at him, this is all wrong, wrong, wrong. He’s halfway back into his ill fitting suit trousers.

“Jamie.”

“Four, I’ve killed four, alright?” Jamie just sounds tired now and he clearly doesn’t get it. Malcolm doesn’t care, because there’s every chance that Jamie brought a knife with him this evening but he’d also let Malcolm practically tenderise his neck, he doesn’t care because Jamie’s not going to kill him.

“Right , fine. Get back in bed.”

Jamie looks confused, and gestures to his half buttoned trousers, like they’re a legitimate reason not to get back in bed. Malcolm rolls his eyes. Jamie slips back out of the offending trousers and sits back down, about as far away from Malcolm as he can. 

“Ah, for fucks sake.” Malcolm says, and pulls Jamie against him, practically into his lap. “Listen to me, you daft cunt, and listen well. I will start caring if you chuck holy water in my eyes or start plotting to chop my head off, alright? But I happen to know you worship the fucking ground I walk on-”

Jamie starts thrashing like an angry cat in his arms “Fuck you, you fucking prick, I- ”

“Yes, you fucking do, it’s obvious, even pissing Terri can see it, it’s almost embarrassing-”

“You ever mention Terri in bed again-”

“Oh there’s gonna be a next time, is there, you’re not running off with your broken hymen and your knickers in your handbag-”

Jamie shuts Malcolm up with a kiss which is more like an assault and this is far better than sullen silence. He likes having a naked, indignant Jamie in his arms, in his bed. 

He gets shoved backwards and they keep on necking, like stupid teenagers and if anyone murmurs anything that could be interpreted as more than affectionate, well, that’s their fucking business.  
***

Two weeks later, Malcolm opens a parcel and discovers a ‘Team Edward’ t shirt. Jamie considers any punishment that may befall him totally worth it.


End file.
